


Romeo and G-liet

by orphan_account



Series: The Battle of Pennsylvania [2]
Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: 2015 IIHF Ice Hockey World Championships, 2015-2016 NHL Season, Claude has feelings, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Ensemble Cast, Humor, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, Pittsburgh Penguins, Sid has a flip phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9645404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Claude’s not sure what he expects after Worlds, but it’s not the silence he actually receives. The last time he saw Sidney Crosby, he’d just finished kissing him on a bench in Prague. That was in May, and now it’s October and the two of them haven’t exchanged a single word, not in person, not over the phone, not even via text. It probably doesn’t help that they never exchanged contact information, but if Sidney wanted Claude’s number, there were people he could ask. To be fair, Claude supposes he could do the same, but in his mind, he made the first move. It’s up to Captain Canada to decide what comes next.The answer to that is, apparently, nothing. Absolutely nothing.Post the 2015 Worlds, Claude takes matters into his own hands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a sequel to "Lines on the Wrist" or as a standalone. The only context you need is that Sid and Claude kissed at Worlds, and then Sid left without any further explanation. The rest should all be pretty straightforward!

Claude’s not sure what he expects after Worlds, but it’s not the silence he actually receives. The last time he saw Sidney Crosby, he’d just finished kissing him on a bench in Prague. That was in May, and now it’s October and the two of them haven’t exchanged a single word, not in person, not over the phone, not even via text. It probably doesn’t help that they never exchanged contact information, but if Sidney wanted Claude’s number, there were people he could ask. To be fair, Claude supposes he could do the same, but in his mind, he made the first move. It’s up to Captain Canada to decide what comes next.

 

The answer to that is, apparently, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

 

Sometimes, at night, Claude finds himself fingering the scars on his wrist and reliving the feel of Crosby’s thumb tracing a line across them. He feels the ghost of warm lips pressing against them, and he hears a voice in his head, whispering,  _ I don’t want things to be same _ .

 

Well, things certainly aren’t the same, but they’re not better either. He doesn’t miss the resentment and hatred that used to curl in his gut at the mere mention of Crosby’s name, but the tight ache in his chest is an unwelcome successor. In the summer, away from his team and training back home, he could largely avoid the hockey world, but now the season is about to begin, and he knows at some point he will face Sidney Crosby again. 

 

Late one night, a week before the season begins, he pulls out his phone and texts one number that is in his contact list.

 

_ Can we talk?  _ he types out and then presses send. It’s a vague message, but he’s reluctant to say more than that over text.

 

Five minutes later, the phone rings and Claude swipes right to answer it. “Hartsy,” he breathes. “Thank you so much.”

 

“The kids are with their mother,” says Scott Hartnell, voice crackling over the phone. “I got time. What’s kicking you?”

 

Claude pauses, unsure of how to proceed. Should he open cold turkey, or should he try to slowly work his way towards the topic at hand? Should he mention Crosby by name, or simply allude to another man, a hockey player? He definitely should have planned this out thoroughly.

 

In the end, he decides to be vague. No need for rumors to spread, even though he trusts Hartsy’s discretion more than anyone else. “I met someone, and I’m not sure what to do.”

 

Scott huffs out a laugh. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than that, Claude.”

 

“Okay, okay, fine,” says Claude. “I had...an encounter, I suppose you might call it, with one of the guys at Worlds. We haven’t spoken at all since then, and I think I’m going mad.”

 

“Whoa, slow down,” responds Hartsy. “You hooked up with someone at Worlds? A Canadian?”

 

“Yes, a Canadian.”

 

This information allows Hartsy to narrow down the list of possible men considerably, but Claude decides there’s nothing to be done. If he needs advice, then he needs to at least a little specific.

 

“So was it a one night stand, or did it happen a couple of times?”

 

Claude sighs heavily. “We didn’t even sleep together, just kissed.”

 

“I assume this person plays for the NHL? And that they’re not on the Flyers?”

 

“Correct,” says Claude.

 

“Do you want to see them again?” asks Hartsy bluntly.

 

Claude pauses. “Yes, I do,” he finally admits.

 

“So call them! If you want to talk, just, I don’t know, shoot ‘em a text.”

 

“I don’t have their number.”

 

Hartsy practically growls on the other end of the line, and Claude imagines the look of consternation and frustration likely splashed across Hartsy’s face. During the years they played together, he developed a deep understanding of the meanings behind all of Hartsy’s many facial expressions, and this one had been particularly noteworthy.

 

“I assume you have some mutual friends,” he speaks slowly, like he’s explaining a simple concept to a small child. “Ask one of them--it won’t be weird.”

 

“Actually,” says Claude, “it would be very weird. People would be...surprised...if I wanted to talk to this person.”

 

Claude can almost hear the cogs ticking away in Hartsy’s brain as he runs through a mental list of the men of Team Canada. It takes him nearly fifteen seconds, but then he whispers. “You’re fucking with me, G. Please tell me you’re fucking with me, or that this is some belated April fools joke.”

 

“I wish I were,” says Claude.

 

“Sidney fucking Crosby!” booms Hartsy’s voice across the phone, and Claude winces at the volume. “You kissed Crosby? Sidney Crosby? That Crosby?”

 

Claude regrets everything. He allows Scott a full minute to process his shock and laughter before interrupting. “You done yet?”

 

“Am I done? G, I don’t think I’ll ever be done. This is some Romeo and Juliet shit right here. Wait, hold on a second, I’ve got a new nickname for you.”

 

Claude thinks he sees where this is going, and he needs to stop it. “No, you really don’t.”

 

“Juliet. G-liet. With you as Juliet. You’re definitely a Juliet. More French.”

 

“Look,” Claude snaps, “there isn’t going to be any Romeo and Juliet if neither of us ever speaks to the other one again, so maybe you could focus here for a second!”

 

Harsy’s still wheezing with laughter, but he manages to regain some control over himself. “Sorry, G. It’s just...even you have to admit this is a bit crazy.”

 

Claude sighs, because Hartsy’s right (like always, although he’ll never that aloud, not in a million years). His “feelings,’ or whatever the hell you want to call them, are illogical in the extreme, but Claude thinks it’s fitting in an odd sort of way. As a child, his family teased him for his red-headed temper, his passionate, fiery nature. His emotions never followed any sort of logical path, usually choosing the thorniest route. It figures they would choose the most unlikely of people, the captain of the rival team, as their target. “I know it’s crazy, but it’s true. Believe me, I’ve been crawling up the walls this summer.”

 

“Have you talked to anyone about this?” asks Hartsy.

 

Claude shakes his head before remembering Hartsy can’t see him over the phone. “I haven’t. I mean, there are only a handful of people who know...well, you know…”

 

“Yeah, I know,” says Scott softly. “I get it. It’s a shitty situation.”

 

“It really is.”

 

“On the bright side, I bet if someone found out about you two, people wouldn’t give two shits that you’re gay, they’d be too busy freaking out over the fact that it’s a Pen and Flyer.”

 

Claude is three seconds from chucking the phone against the wall and finding a nice lake to drown himself in when Hartsy decides to finally take the situation seriously.

 

“Look, Claude, I don’t know exactly what to tell you except that if you want to talk to Crosby, you should just talk to him. If you want, I can hit up Talbot for his number. I’ll say, I don’t know, I’m looking for advice on concussion stuff. Max won’t ask too many questions.”

 

“Thanks, Hartsy. I really appreciate this.”

 

“Whatever, G-liet. Now stop worrying so much about Sidney Crosby and start working on kicking ass this season.”

 

Claude hangs up, ears still ringing from Hartsy’s laughter. Scott Hartnell might be a grade A asshole, but he’s also one of Claude’s oldest hockey friends and the one of the only people he would trust with information like this. 

 

The next day, during lunch, Claude receives a text.

 

_ Go find your Romeo _ , it reads, and Claude wants to punch Hartsy in his stupid face, but there’s also a number at the bottom of the text, so he decides that his old friend can live for now. Conditionally. He creates a new contact and saves it as “Prague” in case anyone ever pokes through his contacts. If his team ever saw Sidney Crosby’s number in his phone, they would be merciless.

 

He doesn’t use it for a week, but after the Penguin’s first loss, he sends a message.

 

_ Rough loss _

 

The reply is almost immediate.  _ Who is this? _

 

Claude’s fingers shake as he types out a reply.  _ Claude. From Worlds. And from everything else. _

 

He waits a full minute for the next message to arrive, and stares at his phone like an actual idiot. Old songs mention waiting impatiently by the phone for someone to call. He thinks he understands what they mean now, because the little electronic device in his hands has never terrified him more.

 

After the most agonizing sixty seconds of his life, the phone buzzes.  _ Yeah, it was rough. We’ll get it together for the next game _ .

 

That’s it. No question about how Claude got his number, why he reached out so many months later. No mention of the kiss.

 

_ You better _

 

_ Do you seriously want the Penguins to improve? _

 

_ It will make it more satisfying to kick your ass _

 

This is familiar and comfortable territory. He can talk shit about the Penguins in his sleep in two separate languages, and it’s important that Crosby knows the teams still come first.

 

_ We don’t play until January. That’s a long time from now. _

 

A shiver snakes its way down Claude’s spine.  _ Are you saying you want to meet earlier? _

 

_ Do you? _

 

_ More than anything _ , Claude wants to say, but he settles for  _ yes _ .

 

_ Pittsburgh or Philly? _

 

This is a difficult question. Either way, one of them will be in enemy territory and they will both run the risk of being spotted together. Philadelphia is a larger city, which means more people, but Crosby is more recognizable in Pittsburgh. They will need to be careful regardless.

 

He makes an instinctual decision.  _ Philly _ .

 

_ I checked our schedules. We both have an off day two weeks from now. I’ll fly over then _

 

This is real, Claude reminds himself. He is actually texting Sidney Crosby, who is actually arranging to meet him in Philadelphia in two weeks time.

 

_ Perfect _ , he writes back. Then he gives the address of a little cafe not too far from his phone where they can meet, because there is no way Claude can be spotted at the airport picking up Sidney Crosby. Sid agrees to meet there, and then the conversation is done, and so is Claude’s life, probably, because one way or another, this thing between them is going to explode. He just can’t decide if his terror outweighs his excitement or not, but they’re so interwoven there’s no point in separating the two.

 

Then, because apparently he’s a masochist, he texts Hartnell.  _ SC and I are meeting in two weeks _ .

 

Hartsy’s return text is predictable, full of winky faces and those emojis that blow kisses. Claude’s just glad someone is enjoying themselves throughout the whole process. 

  
  
  


The weeks pass both far too slowly and far too quickly. The Flyers are holding their own, even if a few bad losses rankle Claude more than he cares to admit. It’s still early in the season, though, so he tries to maintain a positive outlook. He tracks the Penguins closely as well, and they’re performing even worse than the Flyers. Normally, such news would bring him unfettered joy, but now it’s tempered with worry for Crosby. Yet another way in which Sid has fucked up Claude’s life. 

 

He’s so jittery the day Crosby is scheduled to arrive that several of the guys pick up on it. Schenner in particular, who of the other Flyers at Worlds was the only one to ever notice something strange, shoots Claude odd looks throughout morning practice. After Claude misses a string of what should be easy shots, Dave pulls him aside.

 

“Anything going on that I need to know about?” he asks.

 

“No, Coach,” he says. Dave regards him steadily, but he doesn’t press further. Dave’s new, but he and Claude have already established a good rapport. He knows that if Claude needs to say something, he will.

 

The moment morning practice ends, Claude bolts to the locker rooms. There’s an optional afternoon skate, but he needs to pick up Sidney from the little cafe, and if he hurries, he won’t even be too late. Coots and Raffl smirk a little as Claude towels himself off from the shower with alarming urgency.

 

“Somewhere to be, G?” asks Coots.

 

“The sooner I’m out of here, the sooner I can be free of your ass, so yes,” says Claude perhaps a little harshly. Coots takes the chirp in stride and settles for exchanging meaningful glances with Jake. Claude pulls on sweats and a t-shirt, neither of them Flyer’s merch, and leaves the locker room with a hurried goodbye. The muttering from the locker room follows him as he walks out the door, but he ignores it and focuses on not crashing the car on his way to the cafe.

 

He guffaws when he arrives at the cafe. Crosby sports both sunglasses and a baseball cap, and he’s drinking some sort of coffee or tea while hunched over at a table in the corner of the patio. Like Claude, none of his clothing attracts any attention, but he appears so distinctly uncomfortable that it’s hard not to notice him. Claude’s a little surprised at how bad Sid is at the subtlety game--after years of the media spotlight, surely one learned how to navigate the world inconspicuously. Maybe that was why he purchased large houses set far away from other people.

 

He pulls out his phone and texts,  _ Red Volkswagon, left side of parking lot _ .

 

Sid feels his phone buzz and opens it (dear God, he has a flip phone) then looks up in surprise. He spots Claude’s car and, after several furtive glances, he makes his way over to the car. He slips into the passenger seat and sighs in relief, but both the shades and the baseball cap remain.

 

“Very smooth,” Claude remarks, trying to keep his tone casual despite the sudden uptick in his heart rate.

 

“Shut up,” says Sid. “Just get us out of here.”

 

They complete the short drive to Claude’s house in silence. The tension hangs thick in the car between them, and Claude wonders if it’s possible to choke on perfectly breathable air. Sid stares straight ahead, hands clenched firmly in lap.

 

Claude’s the one to break the sound barrier around them. As they walk into the house, he gestures loosely to the living room. “Bienvenue chez Giroux,” he says. He turns to Crosby, who’s still clutching his small duffel bag and standing stiffly in the foyer. “I don’t know exactly what you had planned past this point, but--”

 

Crosby drops the duffel and cuts off Giroux by kissing him roughly. This kiss bears little resemblance to the one months ago in Prague, but Claude relishes the urgency he feels in the movement of Sid’s mouth, the desire he tastes on the tip of his tongue.

 

_ “Viens ici _ ,” orders Claude, yanking Sidney by the shirt up the stairs. If Sidney notices Claude’s slip into French, he says nothing, just kisses him harder. He allows himself to be dragged up the stairs and then unceremoniously pushed on the bed. Claude chucks away the stupid sunglasses and cap and focuses on making sure Sidney Crosby feels every ounce of frustration and moment of joy he’s experienced in the months since Prague, and he knows he’s succeeded when Sid groans.

 

Once the sex is over, Claude lies back, staring at the ceiling, the familiar spots and crinkles he sees every night. Bedroom ceilings are an intensely personal sight, he thinks, something only available to a select number of people. Now that number includes Sidney Crosby.

 

Or it would if Sid would stop staring at Claude. His wide dark eyes traverse the contours of Claude’s face, the gentle dip of his collarbone, the firm plain of his chest, and they flicker down below the waist before returning to Claude’s face. His cheeks redden.

 

“So, uh, that was nice,” says Claude. 

 

Sidney nods, lips curving into a soft smile.

 

“You going to say anything?” Claude asks petulantly.

 

Sid gulps. “I guess, I’m not really sure what to say. I’m in Philadelphia on my off day because we kissed once five months ago, and now I’m lying in the bedroom of the Flyer’s captain”

 

Resentment and hurt flares in Claude’s gut. “You didn’t have to come.”

 

“No, it’s not that,” he says, and the knot in Claude’s stomach loosens. “This is all...a little unprecedented for me. Not really in my usual routine. I’m not sure what comes next.”

 

“I don’t know about you,” says Claude, “but I didn’t eat lunch after practice, so I’m ready to wolf down a whole chicken at this point. I can start cooking.”

 

Sid’s stomach growls, and Claude smirks. “That’s a yes, I believe.” He rolls out of bed casually, grabs a towel from the linen closet, and chucks it at the Penguin still lying on his bed. “Shower if you want, you can borrow anything you need of mine.”

 

Sid wanders off into the shower while Claude heads into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and sighs at the largely empty shelves before him. Luckily, some old takeout still sits in the corner, and he’s fairly certain no one will die of food poisoning if they eat it. Takeout it is.

 

Crosby emerges from the shower ten minutes later, hair still damp from the water and wearing an old Rimouski t-shirt. Sid’s definitely muscled up in the time since his junior league days because his biceps and pecs strain against the confines of the fabric.

 

“That’s an old shirt,” notes Claude.

 

“And you’re still wearing no shirt,” remarks Sid. “And you didn’t even cook.”

 

“I don’t have much food in the fridge,” says Claude defensively. “If you’re that picky, then we can order in.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” says Sid. “I’d just heard so much about your grilled cheeses, I thought maybe I would finally get to taste one myself.”

 

“I don’t put out until at least the third date,” says Claude dryly. 

 

“Not where it matters,” says Sid, and his smirk grates at Claude’s skin like it always does, except instead of wanting to punch it off his face, he wants to kiss it off. And now he actually can. He approaches Sid and pulls him closer by the waist to kiss him thoroughly. By the time he finishes, Sid isn’t smirking anymore.

 

“What was that for?”

 

“No reason,” says Claude. “No reason at all.”

 

Sidney Crosby leaves early the next morning, though not until after two more close encounters in the bedroom and several extended makeout sessions in the kitchen. No grilled cheese, though--Claude wasn’t joking on that front. After practice, Claude checks his phone and sees a text from Hartnell. 

 

_ And? _ Is all it says.

 

_ And it was good _ , replies Claude.

 

_ Is that all I get? _ asks Hartsy.

 

_ Do you actually want to know more? _

 

_ No, you’re right, I don’t _ .

 

Claude laughs. Then, because he’s a good friend, he tells Hartsy,  _ We’re meeting again in three weeks, the next time our off days coincide _ .

 

_ Not a one off then _ , says Scott.

 

_ I guess not _ .

 

In truth, there’s a long list of things Claude’s still guessing at, and there’s no way for him to know any better. 

  
  
  


Sid comes to Philly at least half a dozen times more over the next months, each time just for a night. Each time, they never leave Claude’s house, too fearful of being spotted outside. These nights are both strange and wonderful--holed up in Claude’s house, there’s no escaping each other, and as much as Claude relishes each kiss and each touch, he’s constantly aware of how precious and dangerous each moment is. He knows what they’re doing is unorthodox at best, outrageous at worst, but every time his phone pings with a new text message, he desperately hopes it is from Crosby. 

 

His discretion pays off when Simmonds borrows his phone to call his mother after a game, his own phone forgotten at home, and Simmonds returns with a bemused look.

 

“Got a text from this ‘Prague’ person,” he says, handing the phone back to Claude. “Says they’ll be here tomorrow at one.”

 

“You read my texts?” exclaims Claude.

 

“G, chill,” says Simmer. “It just popped up after I hung up. Didn’t know you knew someone named ‘Prague’ thought. Is that like a stripper name or something? You been seeing a stripper?”

 

“No, it’s a nickname,” says Claude. “And it’s also none of your damn business.”

 

“I got it, I got it,” says Simmer, holding up his hands. “I won’t ask any more questions.”

 

“Thanks,” grunts Claude, and while Simmer is always a true friend, others, like Schenner, are not.

 

“What’s this I hear about you seeing a stripper?” says Schenner, bounding up to him at the end of practice a week later.

 

“I don’t know where you heard any of your information,” says Claude, gritting his teeth, “whoever you talked to lied.”

 

Schenner actually wilts. “That’s not fun.”

 

“I assure you, whoever I am seeing is not a stripper,” says Claude, and then winces.

 

Coots pops out from behind Schenner like an obnoxiously perky daisy. “So you are seeing someone. Seeing someone how?”

 

“Again, might I remind you, it’s none of your goddamn business,” seethes Claude.

 

Then Jake Voracek feels the need to involve himself in this conversation. “You’re not denying anything, which means you are seeing someone.” He peers at Claude. “That’s not a bad thing.”

 

Claude slams down his equipment in a manner unbefitting the team captain, but as far as he’s concerned, everyone else around him is behaving in an manner unbefitting anyone worth being near at the moment. “I’m leaving now, and I will see you all tomorrow, where the topic of discussion will not be my personal life but will instead be the  _ hockey _ we are paid to play. No wonder our play’s been shit lately.” With that said, he storms out of the locker room and into the parking lot.

 

Claude is halfway into his car when Simmer ambushes him. He holds the car door open and says, “We need to talk.”

 

“No, we don’t,” insists Claude.

 

“Yes, we do,” says Simmer. “You’re the captain, and I know you like to keep things private, but you were out of line back there with the team.”

 

Claude slumps against the seat of his car. “I know, I was.”

 

“And because I know you, I know that you’re bottling something up inside, which is never good for for you or for anyone around you.”

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

“So, like a good friend, I’m coming to your place, and we are going to order takeout and drink beers and get you to talk. I’m not expecting specifics,” he adds when Claude tries to impart all of his murderous feelings with his eyes alone, “but at least a little bit. You owe me that much. You owe the team.:

 

“Fine,” says Claude, resigned to his fate. “A couple of beers couldn’t hurt. It’s been a long season.”

 

“Amen to that,” says Simmer. “I’ll meet you at your place--just need a couple of minutes to myself.”

 

Claude nods and starts his car. He drives home in a stupor, running through everything he’s spilled so far to his teammates. He needs to figure out what can be said to Simmer without revealing anything too specific (because the last time he tried with Hartsy, he failed miserably). He’s still muttering to himself as he walks into his house, and his thoughts are so consumed with Simmer and with Coots and Schenn he barely notices the 200 pound hockey player crashing into him.

 

“Surprise!” says Sid awkwardly, wrapping his arms around Claude and kissing him aggressively. “I used your spare key--hope you don’t mind.”

 

Claude is torn between shock and elation. On the one hand, the heat which always simmers beneath the surface around Sidney Crosby has begun to manifest itself in the most delightful way, but on the other hand, surprises are dangerous. They always plan every travel detail carefully.

 

“You said tomorrow,” murmurs Claude.

 

“I know, I know,” responds Sid. “I’m just trying to be a bit more...spontaneous, I guess? You always complain that I never do anything purely for the sake of fun, so I thought this might, I don’t know, show that I can. If you want me to.”

 

It’s by far the sweetest thing Sid’s ever done for Claude, and he knows what he needs to do. “Come here,” he says, pulling Sid closer so their bodies are pressed fully against one another. “Somehow you’re even more infuriating when you’re like this.”

 

“Is that a bad thing?” asks Sid.

 

Claude sighs. “No, it’s not.” He begins to kiss Sid lazily, mouth trailing along his jaw, nibbling at his ear, at his throat. Sid slips his hand beneath Claude’s shirt and places his hand at the small of Claude’s back, then slips it even lower beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. His hands are warm, enticing, and Claude responds by returning to Sid’s mouth, sucking at his lower lip. They’ve never had sex in the kitchen before, but Claude thinks it might just happen today.

 

“Your door’s open, just so you know,” comes the voice of Wayne Simmonds, striding in through the entrance. “And I hope you have--oh sweet merciful Jesus. Fuck.”

 

Claude and Sidney jump three feet into the air, separating immediately,  but from the look on Simmond’s face, he saw more than enough. Simmond’s eyes are wide, and his jaw is hanging slack, mouth moving noiselessly. His eyes flit between Sid and Claude and back again, as if he needs to see Sidney Crosby more than once to fully believe the sight before him.

 

“Simmer,” begins Claude, “I need to explain.”

 

“You...and Sidney Crosby?” asks Simmer. “Are you fucking with me? Are you fucking with me?”

 

Sid, who’s retreated into what can only be described as the most neutral, expressionless game face, steps behind Claude. Even though they’re no longer touching, Claude sense the tension wrapped around his body like a vice. Or maybe that’s merely his own tension, slowly squeezing the life away, drop by drop.

 

“I’m not sure what to say,” says Claude, his voice low. “What do you want me to say?”

 

Simmer opens his mouth, thinks better of it, closes it, and then opens it again. This time he manages to produce actual words. “Is Crosby ‘Prague’?”

 

Sid knits his brow in confusion, and Claude sighs, closes his eyes. “Yes, he is.”

 

“So this thing...it is a thing, right? Sidney Crosby didn’t just miraculously show up at your house to make out with you for the first time today, did he?”

 

“No,” answers Sid, and both Claude and Simmer turn to him. “No, this has been happening for a while.”

 

“Jesus,” says Simmer, and he leans against the doorframe like he needs support from something solid in his life. “How long is a while?”

 

“Months,” says Sid. “Since November.”

 

“Fuck. Holy shit,” says Simmer. “Am I the first to know?”

 

“No,” says Claude. “Scott Hartnell knows, but that’s it.” He looks to Sid for confirmation, and Sid nods. 

 

“So the second,” says Simmer. “Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.”

 

“Look, I didn’t mean for you to find out,” snaps Claude. Simmer is not the one with the right to be upset here, not when Claude and Sidney still fear for their careers with every kiss and every inch of contact. “Believe me, this wasn’t planned.”

 

“Then why the fuck is here?” asks Simmer. “You knew I was coming over!”

 

“I surprised him,” says Sid softly. “He thought I was coming in tomorrow, and then when he came in, I distracted him.”

 

Simmonds chokes when Sid mentions the word “distracted,” and glares at Claude as if offended on a deep, personal level by the very thought Claude and Sidney together. Claude can’t blame his friend; less than a year ago, this situation would have elicited the same reaction in him.

 

“Wayne,” says Claude, “I understand this is weird. Believe me, it took me a while to adjust to the idea as well, but once I looked past the history and the Penguins logo on half his clothes, he’s actually a decent guy.”

 

“Always the tone of surprise,” says Sid drily. 

 

Simmonds is definitively unappreciative of any contribution Crosby has to offer. His glare intensifies, and Sid, who Claude knows is not easily scared, wilts beneath his gaze. As reluctant as Claude is to send Sid away when they already receive so little time together, he needs to handle Simmer alone, without the source of conflict standing not three feet from both of them. Wayne isn’t Hartsy, not in any sense of the word, and though Claude values their friendship, he knows if not properly explained this affair could place a strain on their relationship for weeks, if not months or even years.

 

“Sid, I think it would be best if I talked with Wayne alone for a while,” says Claude evenly.

 

Sid widens his eyes in understanding and murmurs about starting to cook in the kitchen. He leaves with a hand on Claude’s shoulder, and Claude flinches when even that small contact causes Simmonds’ eyes to narrow suspiciously. His expression remains hard even once Sid has disappeared, and Claude pulls Simmonds into the living room so as to be out of earshot from the kitchen.

 

“What do you want to know?” says Claude steadily, facing his teammate and friend directly. “What do I need to tell you to convince you that I’m not crazy?”

 

“I think,” hisses Wayne, “that it’s my job to convince you that you’re out of your fucking mind. Do you know how this ends, G? Badly, every single time. You keep this up, you get caught, it ends badly. You break up, maybe he tells his little Penguin friends and they target you every single time we play for breaking their captain’s heart, and it ends badly. You’re lying to your teammates, to your coach, and so is he, and it ends badly. Why the fuck would you do something so unbelievably stupid?”

 

“Look, we’re not even officially together,” says Claude. 

 

“Have you been with anyone else since your little fling began? Have you been on a date?” Claude shakes his head. “Has he?” As far as Claude knows, the answer to that question is also no, so he shakes his head again. “So you’ve just been exclusively fucking each other for several months now. I don’t care what you’re calling it, you’re together.”

 

Claude sighs. “Even if we are together, it’s not like I’m expecting a ring. We’re just...having fun.” He flinches immediately at his choice of words. Simmonds face steams.

 

“Then have your fucking fun elsewhere! If it’s just ‘fun,’ pick someone else, anyone else, and make them your fuckbuddy. You’re the captain of the Flyers, G, you can find some puck bunny willing to blow you on any given night.”

 

“You think that’s what I want?”

 

“I don’t know, G. But Crosby had better be more than a little fun to you when you’re riding the edge like this. You’re not in love with him or anything, are you?” He pauses. “Are you?”

 

“No,” says Claude. He feels the need to say more, though, to attempt to convey to Wayne his reasoning, because every time he steps in the shower, every time he lies awake at night, every time he sees Sid’s face flash across the screen on tv, he runs through some iteration of this argument. Each argument ends differently, but each time, he finds he cannot escape one simple fact: “I like him, though. I like him a lot.”

 

“You used to hate him,” points out Simmonds. “Remember the summer you had your wrist surgeries? Remember how you would cuss him out every single time you knocked over a beer bottle or needed to ask for help? Remember this is the guy who flat out said he didn’t like you or anyone on our team on national television?”

 

“I’ve done shitty things too,” says Claude patiently. “I’m not saying we’ve entirely forgotten what happened in the past, but we’re both older now. We know what we did was stupid. Once we actually spent some time playing together without the rivalry hanging over our every move, I discovered he wasn’t too bad.”

 

“And you decided to fuck him then, because the guy wasn’t the asshole you always thought was?”

 

Claude balls his hands into fists and takes several deep breaths. “No. We...I felt something at Worlds. I kissed him, and you know what, it felt amazing. It felt really fucking amazing. So I did it again.”

 

Simmonds is glaring at him now, simmering with rage, and Claude thinks with some bitter irony that Scott was right. As furious as Wayne is right now, he’s barely mentioned the rather obvious fact that Sid is a man and Claude is also a man and together they comprise a decidedly non-heterosexual couple. He ought to feel relief, he supposes, but he’s hardly relishing in his current situation at the moment.

 

Simmonds crosses his arms and draws himself to his full height, placing himself considerably above Claude. “Is he worth your career? Your team?”

 

“He doesn’t have to be,” says Claude angrily. “I can have my career and the Flyers and Crosby if I want.”

 

“You mean to say when we play the Pens, you’re not going soft on our asses?”

 

“Look,” huffs out Claude, “we’ve played the Pens since this whole thing began. Multiple times. Can you recall a single instance of me slacking off against them?” Simmer remains stonily silent. “I understand you’re upset, but questioning my loyalty to this team is out of line, Wayne. I’ve never shown anything but devotion and passion for the Flyers, every single day since I first wore the jersey. You know that. I know you know that.”

 

Simmer reluctantly concedes, but his posture and tone still speak to his strong displeasure with the situation. “I don’t like it,” he says simply. “I think you’re making a massive mistake, and one way or the other, it’s going to bite you in the ass someday. Maybe sooner rather than later.”

 

His words chill Claude’s blood, because Claude’s envisioned the multiple scenarios where everything burns to the ground, and at the moment, he’s unsure of where Wayne stands, where he would stand if the shoe drops. “I don’t need you to like it,” he says quietly. “I just need you to not tell anyone else, to not make my life more difficult than it already is.”

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” responds Simmer, and Claude relaxes minutely, “but only because you should be the one telling people, and I’m not doing your dirty work for you. Just figure your shit out, yeah?”

 

“I’ll try my best,” Claude says.

 

Simmer lets his arms hang loose, and he leans against the wall. “The moment this is up, you tell me, though. I need to know if I’m going to be stopping every Penguin rookie trying to prove himself by avenging his captain.”

 

“If it ends, I’ll tell you,” promises Claude. “Thank you for keeping this a secret.”

 

Simmer scowls. “I owe you plenty from the years we’ve played together, so you’re damn lucky it was me and not someone else on the team who discovered this. Be careful, or even better, break it off so you don’t need to hide.”

 

“I’ll be careful.’

 

With that, Simmer slumps, resigned to the end of the discussion, although Claude anticipates remarks and veiled threats for weeks to come. “Drinks are off then?” he surmises.

 

“For now,” says Claude.

 

“I’ll see you for practice in a couple of days, G. I don’t like this, though. I don’t like it all.” Simmer shows himself out and Claude allows himself a minute to breathe deeply, to regain his composure and remind himself that one of his nightmare scenarios actually passed without the world slamming to a halt. After clearing his head, he slinks into the kitchen and finds Sid working on dinner with carefully-crafted nonchalance. Claude levers himself to sit on one of the counters, and he observes quietly as Sid fusses with red sauce bubbling gently in a pan. He admires his disheveled hair, his strong arms, his truly remarkable ass, and more than anything else, he admires his dedication. Claude knows if they had swapped positions, he would have hovered by the door to hear the entire conversation. It seems Sid is too honorable to spy even in a potentially disastrous situation. 

 

Claude coughs pointedly, and Sid whips around, spraying dribbles of sauce on the floor. Sid’s face flickers through dozens of emotions--apprehension, relief, joy, fear--and he quivers almost imperceptibly. “Is he still here?”

 

“No,” says Claude. “And he promises to keep quiet.”

 

“Thank God,” says Sid, and without another word, he rushes over to kiss Claude firmly, hands entangled in his hair. Something slimy drips onto Claude’s shoulder, and he pulls away to investigate. A splotch of sauce now decorates his previously pristinely white shirt.

 

“You’re dripping on me,” Claude whines, gesturing at the spoon Sid apparently forgot to leave behind in his haste.

 

“Sorry,” says Sid, though the mirth in his eyes suggest no apology whatsoever. “Hope you weren’t too attached to a plain white t-shirt. Lord knows you can’t afford another one.”

 

“Fuck off,” says Claude, glaring at Sid. “Just because I can, doesn’t mean I want to ruin a shirt because you can’t control a fucking spoon.”

 

“I’m making you dinner right now,” says Sid. “You should be grateful to me.”

 

“Don’t push yourself,” warns Claude.

 

Sid sighs melodramatically. “I know, I know.” He smirks lightly. “The day you make you a grilled cheese, I’ll know I’ve done something right.”

 

Claude nudges him with his knee. “I think the sauce might be boiling over a little.”

 

“Shit.” Sid rushes back to the pot and resumes his stirring, calming the tempestuous liquid. The moment he regains control, he turns back to Claude. “Seriously though, how did your conversation with Simmonds go?”

 

“He’s not happy,” says Claude frankly, and Sid snorts. “That’s to be expected. He’s upset because I’ve been hiding from him, furious because it’s you. He doesn’t think you’re worth it.”

 

Sid stills, pauses in his stirring. “And do you agree?”

 

“I told him it was my life, that I could manage the captaincy and the hockey and...whatever this is.”

 

“That doesn’t answer the question,” says Sid softly.

 

Some of the old furor and irritation flares indignantly at the question. “What do you want me to say? That I’d give up my entire life for a guy I see a few times a month at most, for a relationship with no defined boundaries or commitment?” He seethes. “I can’t  _ imagine _ you abandoning the Penguins for this.”

 

Sid recommences his swirling, his face unreadable. Claude hates it, how Sid can shut off his expression. He knows that years of media training, of barrages of questions ranging from harmless to outright offensive, have necessarily built a solid resistance, but Claude despises it nonetheless.

 

Finally, Sid speaks. “Have you slept with anyone else since last May?”

 

Claude almost falls off the counter. “That’s the question you’re asking?”

 

“Well, have you?”

 

Claude hesitates. “Over the summer, a couple girls. But not since the season started.”

 

“I haven’t either,” says Sid, face still infuriatingly blank. “And I don’t plan to either, not while I’m seeing you.”

 

The magnitude of this conversation slams into Claude with all of the subtlety of a charging elephant. “Are you asking me to be your exclusive fuckbuddy?”

 

Sid grimaces. “I was hoping for boyfriend.”

 

Claude’s never had a boyfriend. He’s slept with several men before, all one-night stands with the exception of a teammate in juniors. Then, they’d find dark corners to tear at each other’s clothes after games, to speak in burning kisses and fumbling hands. But their relationship never extended beyond the physical, and they never spoke about it. He’s dated women, he’s had girlfriends, but never has he committed to a man in any significant way. 

 

“Fuck,” whispers Claude. “I cannot believe I’m doing this.”

 

Sid’s expression is guarded. “Is that a yes?”

 

“Fuck you, it’s a yes,” says Claude. “Oh,  _ merde _ ,  _ je ne peux pas croire ce qui se passe maintenant _ .”

 

“ _ Je te promets _ ,” says Sid hesitantly, “ _ que tu ne regretteras pas cette decision _ .”

 

Claude laughs. “Are you trying to woo me with your awkward French?”

 

Sid shrugs. “If it works.” He turns off the heat on the stove. “I’ve always found that speaking someone’s language endears me to them. It’s probably half the reason Geno tolerates me.”

 

“Your Russian? He said it was awful.”

 

“It is, but I’m trying. I’m trying really hard.” Sid’s eyes are as earnest as he’s ever seen them. Claude realizes Sid isn’t just talking about Geno--he’s applying the same method to Claude that he applies to hockey, to everything in his life: hard, hard work.

 

Claude hops off the counter and sidles up to Sid, hands feeling for Sid’s waist. “I speak good English, Sid. Much better than Malkin.”

 

“You prefer French,” argues Sid.

 

“Yes,” admits Claude, “but I speak English constantly here--it’s not a problem for me. My English is eons better than your French.”

 

“My French isn’t bad,” protests Sid. 

 

Claude shuts him up with a quick kiss. “We’ll practice, eh? Maybe you’ll learn a few words they don’t teach you in class.”

 

Sid kisses him now, and it feels different from before, more purposeful, less like an afterthought and more like the first step in a long, winding path. When they break away, slightly breathless, Sid grins mischievously. 

 

“How attached are you to that shirt?” he asks.

 

Claude rolls his eyes. “The sauce will come out.”

 

“I was thinking, we have another thirty minutes until the chicken’s read to come out of the oven. That’s a good chunk of time,” says Sid.

 

“I think I like where this is going,” murmurs Claude.

 

Sid grabs the neck of his t-shirt and yanks him forward. Then, in a surprising show of strength, he uses his broad hands to literally rip his shirt down the middle, leaving Claude’s chest bare and exposed. Claude gapes at him.

 

“I thought showing off was my thing,” says Claude.

 

“I can have fun,” retorts Sid.

 

“If that’s your idea of fun, then I’ve clearly failed as a boyfriend.”

 

Sid’s face softens until it oozes contentment, and Claude chuckles. “You really like this boyfriend thing, don’t you?”

 

Sid nods and pulls Claude in, hands lingering at the hem of Claude’s sweatpants. “This will be our first time having sex as a couple.”

 

“If you’re going to be that sappy, then we’re not having sex.”

 

Sid growls cuts off Claude, and the sex which follows is neither sappy nor tame. They barely make it to the bedroom, and when they leave, it’s only because the oven timer beeps insistently, reminding them of the baking chicken which will be burned if neither one of them moves. Sid hauls himself out of bed, throws on his shorts, and saunters down the steps to the kitchen, Claude watching from behind the entire time. The chicken parm (which they do eventually eat) tastes delicious, though he has to admit, the taste simply pales in comparison to the tang of “boyfriend” as it slips across his tongue. Sidney Crosby is his boyfriend.

 

If Claude considers the situation, nothing’s changed and everything has. He still has Sidney. He just belongs to him in new, strange, uncharted ways.

  
  
  


At their next practice, Simmer remains coolly professional. He pounds Claude on the back after a particularly dramatic shootout goal, but in the locker room, he averts his eyes and pointedly directs his attention to Raffl. Claude in turn begins questioning Ghost about his exploits from the night before (a date with a super hot chick from UPenn, according to Schenner). Ghost is far more demure on the subject than his erstwhile teammates, but Claude genuinely smiles as Ghost recounts the intricacies of their conversation, small details illuminating exactly how much the young rookie actually cares. Claude claps him on the shoulder.

 

“Just don’t let this lovey-dovey crap bleed into your play, alright?” he chirps.

 

“G’s just jealous cause he’s not getting any action,” chimes in Jake.

 

“No, he totally is,” interjects Coots. “Remember he said he was seeing someone?”

 

Claude flicks his eyes to Simmer, who’s purposefully trained his eyes on his sneakers as he laces them. “I’m not telling any of you weasels a damn thing, so leave it to your imagination.”

 

“No one wants to imagine that, G,” says Jake, wrinkling his nose. “He’s probably making shit up.”

 

Claude recalls the night before, the casual force Sid used to pin him against the wall, the gentle nibble at his collarbone’s hollow, the methodical way he traversed his body with his fingers, his mouth. “I’m not saying anything.”

 

The locker room door slams loudly as Simmer marches away angrily. Raffl appears confused. “What’s wrong with him?”

 

Claude gulps, but keeps his tone light. “Probably not happy with how his shot felt today or something like that.”

 

The rest of the team accepts his explanation unquestioningly, but Simmer’s dramatic exit irritates Claude. If the rift between them is going to affect the atmosphere of the locker room, it might also affect the team’s play as well, and Claude cannot accept that.

 

He tells Sid about it that night on the phone. Since embracing the label of “boyfriends” Sid insists on talking regularly, depending on their schedules. Some nights, particularly on road games, they know expecting a call will be unreasonable, but after a practice, they’re both pleasantly tired but not exceptionally so.

 

“You’re a captain,” says Claude, sprawled across his bed with his phone set to speaker on the pillow.

 

“Have been for a while,” says Sid drily.  “Are you just noticing this?”

 

“Asshole,” says Claude fondly. “I’m asking you for advice.”

 

“Okay,” says Sid. Despite their months of communication and meetings, the two rarely discuss hockey strategy for fear of revealing trade secrets from their team, and Claude hears the apprehension in his voice.

 

“Relax, I’m not asking you for the Penguin’s secret trove of strategy. I’m just wondering how you’d deal with a situation like Simmonds. He’s still angry with me, and I’m worried it will spill over onto the ice.”

 

Sid breathes into the phone for several seconds. “It’s difficult, because I don’t know Simmonds like you. If I think there’s a problem with a player, I tailor my approach to each individual. I try to find the root of the problem.”

 

“God, do you have a book where you read that shit? Some ‘how to be a perfect captain’ playbook?”

 

“You think I’m a perfect captain?” says Sid, amused.

 

“No, but I think you try way too hard. Seriously though, if one of your friends, say I don’t know, Letang or Fleury or whoever you’re tight with, found out about us and reacted poorly, what do you do?”

 

Sid sighs. “With someone I’ve known for years, I give them time. I trust that they respect me, that they will come around on their own terms. If it persists, maybe I sit them down, tell them they don’t have to like me but they do have to play with me.”

 

“How long do you wait to pull them aside?”

 

“It’s only been a couple of days,” says Sid. “You haven’t even played a game together yet. Hold out for a week, see how the situation plays out.”

 

“Fuck,” says Claude, rolling over onto his back. “This isn’t easy.”

 

“No, it’s not,” agrees Sid. He hesitates, the pause weighing heavily in the room. “You’re not regretting it, right? I mean, the whole relationship thing?”

 

“No, I’m not, you dork,” Claude says. “It just might take me some time to figure this whole thing out.”

 

“Yeah, I understand.” Over the phone, Claude hears Sid yawn loudly, and he chuckles.

 

“You should sleep. Big game tomorrow,” says Claude.

 

“Yeah, I probably should,” says Sid, and the reluctance in his voice tugs at Claude’s heart. It’s a strange sensation, this missing someone and knowing he is missed, and he’s still reconciling himself with the fact that this is happening, their relationship is happening. Hell, if he’s having this much trouble, maybe he shouldn’t expect much from Simmer. Still, he expects Simmer to respect him if nothing else and to honor the friendship they’ve developed over their four years as teammates.

 

They say goodbye, and Claude lies across his bed, missing the warm heat of his boyfriend. Sid’s last visit marked the first time he stayed for more than a single night, and the astounding speed with which he became accustomed to sleeping next to him startled Claude. Only two nights. But the season is approaching a close, and though both teams will likely compete in the playoffs, by early June, they will have time. They will have freedom. Right now, in a dreary March day in Philly, that freedom is a distant dream, and he switches off the lamp, curls into a ball, and drifts into a deep sleep. 

  
  
  


The game against the Lightning doesn’t validate Claude’s worst fears, but neither does it disprove them. Simmer and Claude play well, though certainly not at their best, and at least twice, Claude believes Simmer ought to have passed to him and believes his friend would have if not for recent events. In both situations, however, the call is too subjective for Claude to pull Wayne aside.

 

It still stings when they lose, and it stings even more when Simmer continues to ignore him in the locker room as well. No one remarks on the lack of communication--everyone is too busy sulking themselves. After the seventh straight game, each one with its moments of  _ what if’s _ and each one a silent confrontation between Claude and Wayne in the locker room, several people begin to notice. Wayne surprises Raffl by rescinding his agreement to go bar-hopping in Toronto the moment he discovers Claude will be joining them, and Coots quietly (and in French, so Simmer can’t understand) asks Claude if he ought to be worried about Simmonds after another day spent deliberately walling off all of Claude’s attempts at conversation. Claude just shrugs at Coots’ question and reminds himself to be patient, to give his friend time to process. 

 

He calls Sid at least every other day, and the two text when unavailable for an actual phone conversation. On their road trip, Claude excuses himself from the room to talk and he dodges lingering, pesky questions from his meddling teammates who continue to pester him with inquiries into his love life. He responds the same way each time, and each time he refuses to provide information, the stormy look on Wayne’s face darkens. 

 

The day he dreads most approaches rapidly: the next Penguins-Flyers game, the last of the year, and the second to last game of the regular season. With both Philly vying for a playoff spot and Pittsburgh having already clinched theirs, a great deal rides on the back of this game. The Flyers need to win, and as their captain, Claude needs to lead them to this win. He needs to show they can do it this year, even if last year ended in disgrace.

 

When Claude and Sidney face off at the beginning of the game, Claude knows the game is going to be rough in more than one way.

 

The Penguins already have their playoff spot, but they would love a chance to sweep the Flyers in the regular season, and Sid certainly will not compromise his play for the sake of his boyfriend. Claude tries his best to compartmentalize his emotions, but the small flutter in his chest at the faceoff still slithers past his boundaries. He shakes it clear and begins playing with as much speed and strength as his body will allow.

 

Simmer scores on assist from Claude early on, a good goal, and Claude slams Wayne into the boards as celebration along with the rest of the line. They score again, another goal from Wayne, and the Claude thinks they might just have this, though he knows guarantees never exist, especially with Pittsburgh. 

 

Then Pittsburgh scores, a Kunitz goal off an assist by Sid, and just like that, the Penguins are back in the game. The Flyers still hold the lead, but the goal has revitalized them, and much as Claude hates to admit it, their superior speed is allowing them outskate his own team. They just need to hold onto the lead.

 

The score is still 2-1 early in the third period when his nightmare comes true. With Pittsburgh on the power play, both heads of the two-headed monster are chomping at the bit and the Flyers are scrambling to find some way, any way to shut them down. After being passed by Malkin, Claude is slicing through the ice with all of his speed, trying desperately to catch him, trying desperately to stop what he knows will likely be a game-tying goal, trying to get to Sid as Malkin passes him the puck and then--

 

_ Wham _ .

 

Simmer plows into Crosby with a blatantly illegal open-ice hit and Sid falls to the ice and stays down. The reaction of the crowd is instantaneous--they cheer at seeing Philly’s least popular man laid out on the ice, and all Claude can think of is  _ no, no, not Sid, not Sid _ . He’s skating now, moving quickly because all he knows is that he needs to be there, needs to see if Sid is alright, if he has another concussion or if it’s something else--

 

_ Wham _ .

 

This time the impact hits him. Claude barely processes the approach of a white and gold player before said player slams into him, pounding him into the boards with excessive force. Unprepared, Claude meets the hard plastic chest first and his lungs gasp out all of their air, leaving him breathless, sprawled across the ice. He tries to raise his head, but a sharp burst of pain in his side conquers him and he lies back, focusing on breathing, on expanding his ribcage and lungs to allow enough air.

 

Around him, the crowd jeers and boos, the noise actually vibrating the plexiglass surrounding the rink. Claude tries to lift his head again, and he catches a glimpse of entangled orange and white bodies, wrestling with one another and pounding at each other with fists. He’s 95% sure one of the men is Wayne, but then the trainers and doctors swarm on him, blocking his view of the other man.

 

“Did you hit your head?” is the first question out of Gary Dorshimer’s mouth. He’s been a physician with the Flyers for a long time, and Claude knows him well,

 

“No, at least, I don’t think so,” Claude responds honestly. “It doesn’t hurt.”

 

Some relief enters the expressions of the men surrounding him. Concussions are bad news, particularly when the player involved has a history of them like Claude.

 

“What’s bothering you then?” Dorsh probes the area around his neck, feeling for a pulse.

 

“Side,” says Claude, then flinches when hands immediately rest on a sore patch of skin. “Right there, and--ow.”

 

“We need to take you off the ice,” determines Dorsh. Claude reluctantly agrees with his assessment. “Can you get up?”

 

“Sure,” says Claude. “Just give me a minute--kind of got the wind knocked out of me.”

 

Dorsh nods and sits back on his knees to provide Claude with the time to gather his strength. He glances over his shoulder, and suddenly a very different question enters Claude’s mind.

 

“What’s going on over there?” he asks. “What happened with Si--Crosby? Who was fighting.”

 

“I don’t know about Crosby,” says Dorsh, who has thankfully missed Claude’s slip in his usage of Sid’s name, “but Simmonds and Malkin were fighting. Malkin was the one who slammed into you--he’ll probably receive a game misconduct for that.”

 

Claude nods, and after nodding at the trainers, allows himself to be hauled unceremoniously to his feet. The pain in his side flares unpleasantly with the movement, but after regaining his balance, Claude manages to skate (somewhat shakily) off the ice under his own power. He follows Dorsh and the others into the tunnel, nodding at the words of encouragement his teammates throw his way as he passes. Once inside the trainer’s room, he’s ordered to lie back on an examination table while some of the assistant trainers begin removing Claude’s skates. Dorsh guides Claude in lifting his shirt away, a rather painful process, and he begins his examination. After an initial physical assessment, he orders x-rays to be taken of Claude’s chest to locate any breaks in his ribcage.

 

Resigned to his fate of missing the rest of the game, Claude flicks his attention to the screen displaying a live feed of the game on the rink. With the volume on mute and no sign of Sid, the question of Sid’s health begins to nag at him. He needs to know.

 

“Hey, Al?” he directs the question at one of the newer guys, an assistant trainer hired just this past season. Al perks up and looks expectantly. “I know this is going to be a weird question, but would you mind finding out what happened with Crosby? Is he back on the ice.”

 

Al furrows his brows in confusion. “I can check, I suppose. He was off the ice before you, but no one’s told me anything about his condition.”

 

“Would you mind?” Claude asks.

 

“Okay,” says Al slowly. “I suppose I can find the Pittsburgh trainer, ask him if he needs any assistance. He’ll probably talk candidly with me.”

 

Claude nods, and as Al leaves, he leans back and touches his chest hesitantly. He winces at the touch, but despite Dorsh’s fears, he doubts he actually fractured any ribs. A remarkable bruise will develop, certainly, but Claude’s broken bones before, and the pain always feels sharper. He remains obediently still beneath the x-ray machine, and then he breathes a sigh of relief when Dorsh informs him of the good news: no breaks, only deep bruising. Larry, the head trainer, appears with a set of ice packs and places them across Claude’s chest. The cold sensation spreads rapidly across the skin, numbing some of the pain. From the table, Claude watches as the Flyers score an empty netter to secure the victory and move their team one step closer to a playoff seat, even if they still need to win (or at least lose in overtime) to assure their spot over the Bruins two days from now. Just as the game buzzer wails throughout the arena, Al returns, a skeptical expression on his face.

 

“Crosby didn’t return to the ice for the rest of the period--word is they’re just taking precautions because, well, you know…” he taps the side of his head, “but they’re fairly certain he’ll be just fine.”

 

Claude nods casually, concealing the true depth of his reaction to the news. The Claude Giroux everyone else knows (everyone besides Simmer, a voice whispers in his mind, but he’s not touching that thought now) ought to be disappointed that Sid isn’t hurt, isn’t scratched from the playoffs. But the real Claude Giroux is so damn grateful that it scares him a little.

 

Claude remains under the trainer’s supervision for the next half an hour, holding the ice pack to his side. Several other team members wander in, each nursing their own tweaked knees or slapshot bruises, and all of them grunt a hello before melting into one of the available tables for the post-game massage or icing. Claude may be the worst casualty of the game, but he’s far from the only one.

 

By the time he’s released to the locker room, most of the team has already showered and at least half of them have vanished for the night, off to rest before one final practice and one final game of the regular season. He dresses himself in street clothes carefully, grateful for a button down shirt which allows him to avoid lifting his arms too high. Dorsh has already told him to rest tomorrow, skip practice, and to assess his condition for the game the day of. After he finishes clothing himself, he finally checks his phone.

 

Seven unread text messages, all from Sid.

 

_ Are you alright? _

 

_ I’m fine, by the way, just a precaution. _

 

_ I already spoke to Geno about going after you. He said he thought you were going to disturb me. _

 

_ We need to be careful. People don’t expect you to care about me _

 

_ Seriously, are you okay? Getting a little worried. _

 

_ I’m going to wait for you in the parking lot--I’ll be discreet. _

 

_ If you’re not out in the next fifteen minutes, I’m taking a cab straight to your place and waiting there. _

 

Claude checks the time on the last message, and realizes he still has five minutes. Quickly gathering his belongings, he trudges out to the parking lot towards his car and finds a hooded figure leaning against his car. Claude glances frantically around to see if anyone has spotted Sid.

 

“Are you okay?” The words tumble out of Sid’s mouth with desperation. He reaches out as if to pull Claude into a hug, but then considers he might be injured.

 

“I’m fine, let’s just get out of here,” mutters Claude.

 

The drive back to Claude’s house resembles the first drive, the one where Claude met Sid at a cafe all of those months ago. Each man remains quiet, each aware of the mounting tension within the vehicle. Claude sets the radio to the local top 40 station and taps his fingers against the wheel as he drives.

 

When they finally step into Claude’s house, away from prying eyes, Sid asks again. “Seriously, are you okay? I didn’t see the hit, but I heard it was ugly.”

 

“Your friend Malkin is a real treasure,” says Claude harshly.

 

“He was out of line,” says Sid through thin lips. “I already told him that, and he understands.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Claude gulps. “I’m sorry about Simmer. I know his hit was illegal too.”

 

“Rattled me a little, but I’ve had worse,” says Sid. “I was up long before you were. Speaking of which, you never answered my question.”

 

“Doc says bruised ribs,” mumbles Claude. “Nothing broken, fortunately, but I’m supposed to keep icing them and skip practice tomorrow.”

 

“Let me see,” Sid orders. Claude thinks about protesting, but one way or another, Sid will see him shirtless tonight, and they might as well pass this obstacle now instead of later.

 

He removes his shirt with care, undoing the buttons one by one. When he slips the last button out of the hole and spreads the shirt apart, revealing his chest, Sid sucks in a breath.

 

“That’s gotta hurt,” he says, reaching out a hand to place gently across the center of the bruise. 

 

“I’ve had worse,” echoes Claude, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I know,” says Sid, gripping his wrist gently with one hand as he so often does, a reminder of the harsh past between them and the delicate future before them. Claude inhales sharply. “That doesn’t mean I like seeing you hurt.”

 

“I should hope not,” says Claude weakly. “Unless you’re into that sort of stuff.” The joke falls flat, and Sid frowns.

 

“We’ll be gentle tonight. I have an early flight to catch in the morning anyways--probably need to leave here by five at the latest so I can grab my stuff from the hotel before hitting the bus.”

 

Claude sighs heavily and meanders over to the couch where he collapses gracelessly. “Do you mind if we just, sort of, didn’t do anything tonight? I mean, it’s late, you have to leave early tomorrow, and I really don’t feel like doing anything.” He winces as he sinks further against the cushion. “I think I should actually rest like the trainers want me to. I want to play in the next game. Do you mind?”

 

Sid follows him over the couch and tosses another bag of ice his way, which Claude places tepidly on the darkening bruise splashed across his chest. Without warning, Sid plops on the couch next to him and swings his arm around, fingers resting lightly on Claude’s collarbone. “Of course I don’t mind,” he says matter of factly. “We don’t have to have sex every time I see you.”

 

Claude barks out a laugh. “It’s just, we haven’t ever really done much else.”

 

Sid smiles, grabs the remote from the coffee table and switches on the television, flipping to ESPN. “Well then consider this a date.”

 

“This is your idea of a date?” asks Claude incredulously.

 

“I didn’t say it was a good one,” says Sid. “But hanging out with you, just the two of us--that’s kind of like a date.”

 

Claude melts into Sid’s shoulder, and Sid clutches him in tight. “The closest thing we’ve had, I suppose.”

 

Sid hums in agreement, and the two watch the highlight reels from basketball and hockey games across the country. When one of the summaries includes Malkin’s hit against him, Claude tenses and Sid tightens his grip on his shoulder. The sight and sound of his body slapping against the boards sends shivers across his skin and Sid promptly switches the channel to some cooking show with a host he vaguely recognizes.

 

“Thanks,” whispers Claude.

 

Sid nods. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen my concussion hits?” Claude shakes his head. “One time each. That’s more than enough.”

 

“This isn’t as bad,” says Claude. Even if his ribs prevents him from playing in the following game, he ought to be sufficiently healed for the playoffs--nothing compared to the season Sid missed with his head injuries.

 

“Doesn’t matter. No one should have to see themselves like that.” He pauses. “I don’t want to see it either.”

 

“Yeah?” says Claude. “There’s no hidden joy at the sight of me leaving the game, making life easier for your team?”

 

“When we win, we win fair and square,” says Sid firmly. He continues more quietly. “And I can’t believe you’d say that.”

 

“It was a joke, Sid, a joke,” he says seriously.

 

A hand cups Claude’s cheek, pulls him in for a lingering kiss. “If something were to happen to you…” says Sid quietly. “I probably reamed Geno out a little too harshly today. It’s my job as a captain, but he’s probably confused why this of all things made me snap. It wasn’t a malicious hit.”

 

“This bruise says otherwise,” grumbles Claude.

 

Sid’s ghosts his fingers across the tender skin. “Speaking of which, Simmonds?”

 

Claude sighs. “Can we not discuss this right now? You’re here right now, and God only knows how often we’ll be able to see each other in the playoffs.”

 

Sid just kisses him, sweet and simple in the sallow light of the flickering television screen. The little flame in Claude’s heart sparks to light, but a heavy fog shrouds him, prevents him from fully taking advantage of the situation before him. He’s so tired, and his entire body aches, not just his chest, and if he closes his eyes, maybe he’ll stay awake, because that’s how sleep works, right? He’s not so sure anymore.

 

“You need to go to bed,” murmurs Sid into Claude’s mouth. “I need to sleep as well.”

 

Reluctantly, Claude agrees, and the two of them collapse on Claude’s bed upstairs, arms tangled around one another and Sid’s face pressed into the corner of his neck and shoulder. Claude’s eyes shut easily, and with the warmth of his boyfriend wrapped around him like a old blanket, he falls asleep easily. 

 

When he arises the next morning, Sid has left, although not without a sticky note attached the fridge apologizing for leaving so early. Claude reads it as he hazily fumbles for the carton of eggs shoved in the back corner of his refrigerator, shaking his head at Sid’s unerring politeness. His heart thumps loudly when he reads, “ _ I’ll be back as soon as I can--thinking of you _ ,” but mostly his morning progresses normally, as if Sid were never there. Claude hates that Sid’s absence, rather than his presence, is the normal state of affairs.

 

He swallows a painkiller for the intense ache rapidly spreading across his side as he moves around the kitchen, then curses when he sees two minutes after swallowing the pills that they’re vicodin--not prescription strength advil like he assumed--and therefore likely to inhibit his reflexes. The moment the painkillers kick in, he’s both grateful for the relief and frustrated because he knows he really shouldn’t drive. For one reason or another, vicodin always hits him with exceptional strength.

 

He opens his phone to send a quick text to Schenner, who lives just a few blocks away, to ask for a ride. His first instinct is to text Wayne, but then he remembers he and his linemate are barely on speaking terms. Schenner it is.

 

_ Ur not drunk or anything, r u? _ texts back Schenner.

 

_ Just took the wrong painkiller _ replies Claude.

 

_ Sucks dude _ , says Schenner.  _ 1 time i took morphine & hallucinated spiders on the walls. _

 

Claude huffs out a laugh then grimaces and clutches his side, and repeats his request for a ride. Brayden Schenn promises to be there within half an hour, and Claude sighs in relief.

 

Schenn honks the horn obnoxiously the moment he arrives, and Claude flips him off as he locks the door to his house. He’s brought his workout clothes in a duffel in the hopes of being cleared for some type of exercise today, even if he doubts they’ll allow him to do anything more than hop on an exercise bike. Claude stumbles a little as he shoves the duffel bag in the back seat, and Schenner gazes on with a mixture of amusement and concern.

 

“No way you’re skating today,” he says mildly.

 

“Fucking vicodin. They should have given me something else--I probably won’t even be allowed on a bike.”

 

“I thought you weren’t even coming to practice today?”

 

“It’s just a checkup,” explains Claude. “They want to evaluate me for tomorrow.”

 

“Hmm,” says Brayden. “We sure could use you out there. Fuck Malkin, seriously.”

 

Claude recalls Sid’s explanation for Malkin’s hit, how his concern for his captain motivated his attack on Claude more than any particular malice. It still doesn’t suck any less. “Fuck Malkin,” he agrees.

 

Claude spends most of the morning with the trainer, first icing his ribs and receiving a massage for his neck which has stiffened considerably overnight, and then running through a series of tests to stretch his range of motion. By the time he’s completed the battery of exams, his chest aches fervently, and he’s grateful for the rest. He waits for Schenner to finish practice for a ride back home, since his own car sits uselessly in the driveway for the time being.

 

When Schenner drops him off at home, he insists on carrying the duffel. Claude argues he’s more than capable, and while he is, his whole body silently cries in relief. Still, he protests vehemently the entire way up the small steps into his house, and continues as Schenner sets down his duffel by the kitchen counter. Claude decides a trip to the bathroom is in order, leaving Brayden alone in his kitchen. When he returns after a quick piss, he finds his friend staring curiously at something on the refrigerator door.

 

“You might want to open the fridge,” suggests Claude snidely. “That’s usually where I keep the food, you know.”

 

Schenner sticks his finger on something, though Claude can’t see exactly what from his current angle. “What is this?” he asks.

 

“What is what?”

 

“This.” Schenner rips the thing off the door, and Claude’s heart sinks as he recognizes the little yellow slip of paper. It’s the note Sid left this morning. Claude doesn’t think he signed it (why would he?) but the fear is pulsing through his body in cold shocks.

 

“It’s a note,” says Claude. 

 

Schenner levels his most exasperated glare at him. “I know it’s a note. The question is, who’s it from?” He peers at Claude strangely. “You’re actually seeing someone, aren’t you?”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means you’ve been so fucking opaque about your love life these past months I legitimately questioned if you were actually dating someone or just making shit up because...well, I have no clue why you would, but you also weren’t talking.”

 

“A man’s entitled to his personal life,” says Claude stiffly.

 

“Sure he is. But we’re friends, and I find it a little weird that you haven’t said a goddamn thing about this chick. Normally when you date someone, you at least mention her name.” He flicks his eyes over the note. “It’s just signed S. Which really narrows it down, I suppose.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Is everything okay, G? If something’s wrong, you know I can take things seriously if I need to. I mean, I prefer not to, but if something’s rotten…”

 

“Nothing’s rotten,” interjects Claude. “Everything’s great, in fact, without you sticking your nose in.”

 

“You’re happy with her?”

 

Claude stares at Schenner. There’s no way he can avoid a bald faced lie here. He is happy, but if he says yes, he’s essentially agreeing with Schenner’s assumption that he’s seeing a woman, which he definitively is not. He searches for a way around this dilemma. 

 

“I am happy, yes,” he says finally. “Things are just a little more complicated than usual.”

 

Schenner raises his eyebrows. “Don’t see what’s so complicated. You like someone, you like someone. I don’t think it has to be a secret. As long as you’re happy, you think the rest of us give a shit who it is?”

 

“Simmonds did,” says Claude, then clamps his mouth shut. 

 

Brayden’s eyes widen almost comically, bugging out of their sockets. “Is that what’s been eating him? He doesn’t like your girl?”

 

“Something like that,” says Claude.

 

Brayden furrows his brow. “What did she ever do to him?”

 

“Like I said, it’s complicated.”

 

“Hmm.” Brayden is pensive, and it’s an odd mood for him. Normally he’s more jocular, and Claude understands how to handle that Schenner. This version of his friend is stranger, and he’s less familiar with him and how his mind works. It’s more dangerous that way.

 

“I promise you, everything’s fine,” Claude says by way of reassurance.

 

Brayden is unconvinced. “If Simmer’s still mad, it must be something big. He’s got a temper, but he cools down quickly.”

 

“What’s happening between me and Wayne is my business and my business alone.”

 

“Fine,” says Brayden. “But you should work this shit out with him one way or another. And I hope you feel like introducing us to this chick. I’m happy if you’re happy.”

 

“Thanks,” says Claude. 

 

Schenner leaves shortly thereafter, and Claude breathes out a deep sigh of relief. The rest of the day he spends with a bag of ice across his chest, watching tape of the the previous games in order to prepare for the next one, assuming he is allowed to play.

  
  
  


The next day, with Claude on the ice, the Flyers clinch their playoff spot and prepare to face the Capitals. He receives a congratulatory text from Sid, and he responds with a challenge:  _ You better beat up the Rangers so I can see you next round and sweep the Pens _ .

 

Sid replies with a simple:  _ you wish _ .

 

Of course, the Penguins do defeat the Rangers in a near sweep, but Claude does not see Sidney. The Flyers lose in six, and all of the players return home bruised, battered and defeated. The Penguins are facing the Caps, and Claude will be watching from his home in Philly, licking his wounds both physical and mental. If he’s telling the truth, the only reason he’s not drowning himself in sorrow is the constant litany of texts Sid’s been shooting his way. Even if Claude doesn’t feel like talking over the phone, at least five messages a day pop up on his screen, providing words of encouragement and support. 

 

When he talks to Sid the day before game one of the series, he tells him to win.

 

“I was planning on doing that anyways,” he says with an amusement that travels across the phone.

 

“Make sure that if it couldn’t be me, it’s you,” says Claude. “One of us should get the cup, and if you win this year, it can be my turn next year.”

 

“Not too late to join us and win both years,” jokes Sid, and Claude narrows his eyes. 

 

“I may love you, but the day I wear black and gold is the day I retire from professional hockey.”

 

There’s a long pause from the other end of the line. “You love me?”

 

Shit. “Did I just say that?”

 

“You can take it back if you want to,” says Sid, hesitant.

 

Claude’s voice is rough when he responds. “No need to if it’s true.” He hears the catch in Sid’s breath over the phone, and he thinks he knows what’s going to happen. He doesn’t want it just then. Right now, the loss against the Caps is still too bitter, still too fresh. He doesn’t want any declarations of love tainted by the sting of defeat. “If you’re going to say it back right now, then don’t. Wait until after you win. Wait until you win it all, then you can tell me.”

 

“Okay,” says Sid. “I’ll just have to make sure I come out on top then, eh?”

 

A disembodied hand squeezes against Claude’s heart. “I prefer to date Stanley Cup winners.”

 

Sid barks out a laugh. “I already am one.” It’s one of the closest things to bragging ever to emerge from his mouth, and Claude finds it rather humorous.

 

“Seven years ago,” he scoffs. “Kids in kindergarten today weren’t alive then.”

 

“Yes, well,” says Sid. “I’ll do it, you know.”

 

“I know you will,” says Claude.

 

When he hangs up, the silence echoes around the house. If Pittsburgh makes it through the finals, he won’t have company for a long time. 

  
  
  


Pittsburg does continue to play, and they do continue to win. Their series against the Caps is brutal, but it’s against the Lightning where Claude thinks they might actually falter. And when they come back from a 3-2 series deficit, Claude pumps his fist in the air in his house while watching, then immediately retracts it with a fit of guilt. It still strikes him as odd to cheer for any team in black and gold, but he reminds himself that he’s not actually cheering for the Penguins, just for Sid. If Sid were to be traded (as if that would ever happen), he would return to hating the Penguins with as much passion as he could muster.

 

The day after the Penguins defeat the Lightning in game seven, an envelope arrives in the mail with familiar handwriting gracing the outside. Inside the envelope are two tickets, box seats, to the Penguins first Stanley Cup playoffs game. Attached to tickets is a note with the simple message:  _ Bring a friend _ .

 

Claude knows what he’s implying here. The message rings loud and clear across Pennsylvania. _Tell someone_ , Sid is saying. _Tell someone else_ _about us_.

 

And Claude knows exactly who to bring.

  
  
  


“Not that I’m not grateful for the tickets, but why are we here again?” asks Danny Briere five minutes into the first period.

 

“Someone gave me the box for the night, told me to bring a friend.”

 

“Someone? Who do you know on either of these two teams?”

 

Claude stares out at the ice for a long moment, observing the play from afar. His legs itch with the desire to be there, to be skating once more in the Stanley Cup finals, but instead he is resigned to silently, distantly watching with admiration as his boyfriend deftly maneuvers the puck around Thorton and completes his pass to Hornquist.

 

“Danny, do you remember what I told you that one night, years ago back when I was living with you?”

 

Danny frowns in confusion. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that,” he says.

 

“Remember when we’d had that tough loss against, who was it, the Rangers I think, and you had to drag me back home after a few too many shots?”

 

Danny’s expression shifts instantly from confused to concerned to surprised before finally, finally resting on something unsettlingly neutral. “I do remember, yes,” he says carefully. “I assume you’re referring to you confessing about your teammate in juniors. The one with the blue eyes.”

 

“You remember that part?”

 

“You mentioned them quite a lot,” says Danny. “And everything you said was such a shock, I could hardly forget it.” The frown returns, lines etched across Danny’s face. “Claude, what does this have to do with tonight? Why are we in Pittsburgh?”

 

“Because I did it again,” says Claude.

 

“Did what?”

 

“Fell for another man, another player. And this time it’s serious. I’m not sixteen, and neither is he.”

 

“Oh, Claude.”

 

“I don’t want any sympathy,” says Claude harshly. “I’m  not looking for that. In fact, I’m happy.” He smiles slowly to himself, unable to contain the grin which travels slowly across his face. “He makes me happy, and it’s killing me to not be able to tell anyone. So I’m telling you.”

 

Danny nods seriously, and this is why Claude chose him of all people to come to the game. Even though they haven’t played together in more than three years, Claude still trusts Danny to react sincerely and to understand the gravity of the situation.

 

“Do I get to know who?” asks Danny finally.

 

Claude hesitates a moment. “Sid,” he says.

 

“‘Sid’ as in Sidney Crosby?”

 

“Do you know any other Sids?”

 

“Well no, of course not, but him?”

 

The familiar ache and anger settles in the pit of his stomach, roiling and burning. “Yes, I know it’s him, it’s hilarious, it’s terrible, whatever you want to think, but I promise you, this is not a joke, I am not compromising the team, I am not out of my--

 

“Claude,” says Danny firmly, and he grips Claude’s wrists in an action both familiar and strange. “Claude, I wasn’t going to say any of those things.”

 

“You weren’t?”

 

“Of course not.” Danny’s voice is measured and steady, and Claude recognizes the tone from the times he listened to Danny comfort his youngest son in the aftermath of a rough day at school. It’s not patronizing, though. Just firm, reassuring, protective. “Has someone told you those things?”

 

Claude opens his mouth, but the words stumble on his tongue and he can’t force the lie through his teeth. Danny’s expression darkens.

 

“Who? Who said that? Someone I know?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then who?”

 

“Wayne,” he says. “I told Hartsy too, but he just laughed in my face and gave me Sid’s number.”

 

“I’ll talk to Wayne,” says Danny.

 

“No, you won’t.”

 

“Yes, I will,” says Danny, and he stares directly into Claude’s eyes with an unflinching gaze. “You might not be aware of this, but when I was going through my divorce, a couple of guys made some offhand comments. Nothing so blatantly terrible, but nothing nice either.” He grimaces and swallows hard. “I didn’t want to confront them about it, but Pronger, he heard and he stood up for me. He took them aside and set them straight. Never heard another word again.” He places a hand on Claude’s shoulder. “Sometimes you need a third party to make someone see reason.”

 

Claude nods slowly and then whips his head towards the ice when a loud cheer erupts from the crowd.

 

“Looks like your boyfriend just scored,” says Danny, and a swell of pride erupts in his chest unbidden. 

 

“Yeah,” he says softly.

 

Danny shoots him an amused glance. “So are you cheering for the Pens now?”

 

“No,” says Claude. “I’m cheering for him.”

 

After the game, Claude meets Sid at his house. There, he kisses him slowly and kneads his fingers into muscles sore from the long playoff series. In the morning he leaves, but not before his own note, his own goodbye. 

  
  
  


Claude watches the rest of the games from his house in Philadelphia. He waits with baited breath during game five for the Penguins to win, waits to see Sid lift the cup. The last time he watched the Penguins win, he’d been far too young and temperamental and furious that the team raising the cup wasn’t his team. 

 

This time…

 

The same fury still lurks beneath his skin and the same drive and passion, more urgent than ever as he ages, but this time he controls the envy which threatens to overwhelm him at times because this time he shares, however indirectly, in the happiness a cup win would bring.

 

But then the Penguins lose, and they’re traveling to San Jose and Claude is left with a strangely empty feeling in his body.

 

On the evening of game six, with the Pens up three to two, Claude’s doorbell rings not ten minutes before puck drop.

 

Still dressed in a pair of loose sweatpants and a raggedy t-shirt, he wanders towards the door and opens it, expecting perhaps his new panini press to be delivered after he’d ordered it two days ago.

 

“Hi,” says Wayne Simmonds. “Can I come in?”

 

Claude stares at him.

 

Simmer grimaces, but holds up a six pack tentatively. “I figured--last time we never had our drinks. Maybe we could try again?”

 

Claude steps silently aside, allowing him to enter. Simmer toes off his shoes and pads hesitantly towards the living room, where the sound of the television echoes across the walls.

 

“Game six tonight,” says Claude.

 

“I know,” says Simmer. “Figured you might like some company.”

 

“You know why I’m watching the game. You know who I’m watching.”

 

“G, I’m not an idiot,” says Wayne, and Claude gazes coolly at him until at last Simmer relents. “Okay, I might have been a bit of an idiot, but I’m here now. I’m trying to understand.”

 

“It’s not that complicated,” he says. “Me, him, we’re together.”

 

“No, I know that, but…” Simmer cracks open a beer bottle on the edge of the coffee table and hands it to Claude,  “if you’re actually serious about this guy, then I should try to understand the two of you. Together, I mean.”

 

“He’s not even here right now.”

 

“No, but you are, and well, Briere called me the other day. Reamed me out a little bit and reminded me that we’ve been friends for years and that should always come first.” He grimaces again. “I may not like the guy, but I like you, and if we want that to be us next year, playing for the cup, I should probably start being friends with my captain again.” He snaps the cap off his own beer. “Well, what do you say?”

 

“You know I’m cheering for him, right?”

 

“I know.”

 

Claude gestures towards the couch. “Then you’re free to stay and watch the game.”

 

Wayne’s shoulder relax noticeably and he plops himself down on the couch with a heavy sigh. “Thanks, G.”

 

They watch the game companionably, and Simmer smirks when Claude’s breath catches as Sid streaks forward on a breakaway.

 

“He’s good,” Simmer says. “I’ll give you that much.”

 

Claude nods in silence, eyes transfixed on the image before them. And then, suddenly, the game is over and the Pens have won. He blinks in surprise, barely able to process that yes, in fact, Sid had just won. The Pens had just won the cup.

 

A large hand nudges his own, and he rips his vision away from the screen to face Simmer who is, strangely enough, holding up a white envelope before his face.

 

“What is this?” says Claude, snatching the envelope away.

 

“My apology,” says Simmer. “The best I can do for now.”

 

Claude tears open the envelope to reveal...plane tickets? To Pittsburgh?

 

“I figure you should be there for your man. Even if you can’t be in the parade and whatnot, at least you can be waiting for him at home.”

 

Claude swallows tightly. “Thank you, Wayne,” he says thickly. 

 

“It was the least I could do,” says Simmer. “I figure, if you’re still with him at this point, well, it’s probably more than just a little fun at this point, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” says Claude. “Yeah, it is.” He pulls Simmer in for a brief yet tight hug.  “Thank you,” he says again. “Thank you.”

 

Simmer grunts gruffly. “Just enjoy yourself. And come back ready to kick their asses next season.”

 

Claude offers a small grin. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

  
  
  


He arrives at Sid’s house three days later with a small suitcase and his best flannel shirt draped over his shoulders in the sweltering Pittsburgh summer heat. He knocks sharply on the door, and he knows that Sid is home because his car still sits in the driveway, soaking up the sun. 

 

“Anna?” calls out a voice, one which Claude almost recognizes. “Anna,  _ eta ty _ ?”

 

He realizes what’s happening an instant too late. No sooner does the the language and voice trigger an image, a flash across his mind of a man to accompany the voice, than the man himself appears, large, scraggly beard still unshaven, and highly unamused.

 

“Giroux,” says Malkin flatly. “What you doing here?” 

 

“Uhh,” responds Claude eloquently.

 

Malkin just rolls his eyes, apparently deciding that further conversation with him is useless, and shouts something loudly in Russian through the house. Claude understands none of it, but he catches the word “Flyer” and he figures that Malkin is announcing his presence in likely unkind terms.

 

“Geno, I’m coming,” calls another voice, and this one Claude doesn’t need to struggle to recognize. This is the voice on his telephone every other night, this is the voice which he longs for when he falls asleep alone at night. When the face which matches that voice appears in the doorway, Claude sucks in a quick breath at the sight before him, reminds himself that he’s far too old for his heart to flutter, especially when Sid still sports his atrocious beard.

 

“Claude,” breathes Sid slowly. “You’re here.”

 

“Of course I’m here.”

 

“When you called after the game, I wanted to tell you to come but I wasn’t sure--oof.”

 

Claude doesn’t hesitate to pull him in for a kiss, a long, slow, “you won the damn cup” kiss. When he pulls away, Sid is staring at him with wide eyes. Off to the side, Malkin has yet to say a word, but he’s emanating...something. He just can’t decipher if it’s malicious or confused.

 

“I’m done hiding,” says Claude. “Well, from the team, at least. From the people I care about. I’m not saying I’m ready to come out to the entire world, but Simmonds knows, and I want to tell Brayden and Jake and Coots. And I want you to be able to tell who you want as well.” He gulps, nodding slightly at Malkin. “Starting with this guy, I guess.”

 

Sid, still half buried in Claude’s arms, glances over at Malkin and speaks softly, haltingly in Russian. The two of them converse briefly in a language Claude cannot understand, though he intuits from their expressions and tone of voice that Sid is attempting to condense the entire situation into a short, concise explanation. Malkin, predictably, is skeptical.

 

At long last, Malkin moves forward and stands upright in order to tower over Claude. Once he’s so close that his breath practically wafts across Claude’s nose, he speaks, this time in English. “I hit you again. Next time we play. No mercy.”

 

Claude meets his gaze challengingly. “I would never ask for it. I don’t need it.”

 

Malkin grins wickedly. “We win cup, you not. I think you need all help can get.” He backs away and claps Sid on the shoulder with what seems like excessive force and shakes him hard. “We talk soon, once carrothead is away.”

 

He leaves the two of them alone in Sid’s house. Claude had intended on spending the entire day in bed, maybe ordering some takeout for the two of them, but a sense of gravity has settled into the air. Now a penguin knows. Now several Flyers know.

 

“You sure?” asks Sid. “You sure about this?”

 

“If you trust them, I trust them,” he says. “I guess, just use your own discretion.”

 

Sid shakes his head. “You never fail to surprise me, you know. 

 

“It’s okay,” says Claude. “One of us has to be the boring one after all.”

 

Sid flushes. “Well, I hope you won’t mind then when I say that I have a bit of a surprise in mind.”

 

Claude steps back but leaves his fingers still brushing Sid’s arm. “Oh yeah?”

 

“Well, I was thinking that maybe, if you didn’t have a fully packed schedule that you might...uh...come to Nova Scotia with me. For a bit, at least. Maybe meet the family.”

 

Now it’s Claude’s turn to be amazed. “You want that? You want me to come to Cole Harbor and be seen in the great Sidney Crosby’s hometown?”

 

“Oh shut up,” says Sid. “I wouldn’t invite you if I didn’t mean it, you know. And if we’re being honest, it’s been hard to not talk about you with my family. It’s hard to hide being in love with someone.”

 

Claude allows Sid a moment to contemplate what he just said. Then Sid flushes an even deeper red. “Well, I guess…”

 

“It’s okay,” says Claude. “You know, winning a Stanley Cup has its perks. For one, winners can be the recipients of the famous Giroux grilled cheese recipe.” He steps in closer, leaving mere centimeters between their lips. “And they also get to say I love you to someone who loves them back.”

 

“You do?”

 

“If I’m going to follow you up to Nova Scotia, I sure as hell better be,” says Claude.

 

“Oh,” says Sid. Claude kisses him gently. “That’s good. That’s good to hear.”

 

He rolls his eyes. “And who knows? Maybe this time, you won’t run away.”

 

Sid just kisses him, and Claude decides that’s the most he can hope for for now. They have all summer long to figure it out.

  
  
  



End file.
